


You’re The Only Friend I Need

by bumblebee_rose



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 10:16:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15772089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblebee_rose/pseuds/bumblebee_rose
Summary: They get to talking, really talking and she realizes how much shemisseshim. She wants it all back, she knows she does, making fake medals out of yogurt lids, and swimming with him in the lake at her cottage. Splitting ice cream at the pier, and driving to Waterloo with pillows bunched between them. She wants to laugh the way they used to, falling over and splitting at the seams until her ribs hurt and she felt happy,reallyhappy.She tells him all this between sips of hot chocolate and he tells her they can, so they do.





	You’re The Only Friend I Need

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Ribs by Lorde. It’s just such a growing up song and I couldn’t get the idea out of my mind.

She’s in his car, and some drowned out pop princess is playing on his radio. 

She’s in his car, and her shirt sticks to her, wet with vodka, or tequila, or whatever sticky syrup he’s spilled all over her.

She’s in his car, and she’s never felt more alone. 

 

He had his arm around her all night, pressing her to his side, fingers tangling in her hair and the back pocket of her jean shorts. She couldn’t hear him over the loud music, and the symphonies ringing in her ears, so she doesn’t even know his name. He brought her drinks when she wanted them though, kept her cup full of something that smelled tangy and faintly of raspberry, he wasn’t _terrible_.

He drives fast though, much too fast, and the streetlights blur together like melted candy, seeping into the darkness between the clouds and all the fractured parts of her. She wonders when her heart started to break so easily, when it turned to porcelain and cracked, and cracked, and cracked, but most of all she wonders how it hasn’t shattered yet. She hasn’t invested in superglue and her upper arms are marked by his fingers like a bruised peach and she’s confused by how she’s still standing most days when her shins hurt like his teeth did against her collarbone. 

 

She wishes she was nine years old again, and she could play with dolls, and hang onto her mother’s arm when things got scary. If she’s honest she really just wants her mother here with her right now; she would know what to do. She would be able to wipe the scratches off of her hipbones like they were streaks of paint, soothe her stained cheeks with aloe vera and lavender soap, and turn it all into just a bad dream.

She would run her a bath, and tuck her into bed, and brush her fingers across her forehead like she did when she was sick. But her mother is a million miles away, and she’s all alone, and she spends so many hours and days and weeks wondering if she’s made a mistake, but they all tell her she made the right choice. Nobody ever told her it would feel like this though, growing old. 

 

She hates parties, doesn’t know why she bothers going, everybody just assumes they’re entitled to touch her like she’s a piece for auction. She thinks she groups it with waxing her legs, and plucking her eyebrows as things she does because she feels like she has to. Things you’re _supposed_ to do when you get older, like drinking too many cups of coffee, and paying taxes. Nevertheless she goes, and she drinks, and she smiles, until she gets into someone’s car and crosses her fingers that she makes it home safely.

 

She glances in the side mirror and lets out a breath when she sees the moon. Her mother always told her that as long as she could see the moon, she would be ok, celestial bodies don’t let bad things happen to you. If she can find the Big Dipper someone she can trust is nearby, and if she spots Orion she knows she’s being protected.

Sometimes she feels like Cassiopeia though, the queen in the sky who was doomed to sit upside down on her throne forever. Nothing looks quite the same when you flip it on it’s head, but she could be walking on her hands and she wouldn’t notice a difference. Everything’s been wrong lately. 

 

God, she can’t wait until she’s 30 and she has to sip champagne from tall glasses and wear cocktail dresses, and talk to other 30 year olds about their kids and pretend she’s enjoying herself. She literally can’t. Wait. 

At least now she can drink until she doesn’t remember, and flip off anyone she doesn’t feel like talking to. She figures they won’t remember in the morning either; too busy wrapping their bruised knuckles with gauze, and bleaching lipstick stains off white shirts. 

 

She learned very quickly that none of it felt like the sweet dreams she had delighted in when she was young. Alcohol hits the back of her throat like liquid fire and she hates when he touches her like that, marks her with the ash stained on his fingers, and some other girls lipstick in his back pocket. She remembers when she was younger and she hoped she would grow up to be pretty and popular, and she would go to parties, and stay out late, and dance under the stars, but it is nothing like that. She supposes she should be giving her late night fantasies a stern talking to, friends aren’t supposed to lie like that. 

 

She curls her knees into herself and she _knows_ she shouldn’t be doing that because he’s driving too fast, and the airbag will probably break her legs or whatever happens if he crashes but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t. 

The couple who fought on the front step like Athena and Poseidon plays over in her mind, and she can’t stop thinking about how he kissed her on the cheek and how it felt like he slapped her instead.

She squeezes her eyes shut until she can’t see any light and keeps them like that the entire drive home. She shouldn’t look because there’s no way he should have managed to drive her this far when he’s that drunk, so she assumes there must be angels pulling them like carriage and you should never look directly at angels. 

She just wants to be home, well temporary home, she decides as she feels the car turn sharply to the right, and she almost sobs because she recognizes this part of the drive. Minutes later the car bumps up on the curb and pulls into the parking lot and she opens her eyes again, blinking spots of colour away. 

 

“This is where you live?” He asks her, and she nods, practically jumping out of the car and running to the door.

“Thanks, for the ride.” She says, as he pulls out of the parking lot. It doesn’t matter, he can’t hear her, Avril Lavinge is probably still blasting through his speakers, and it’s not like he cared to listen to anything she said all night anyways. 

She hasn’t thought about what she’ll do if nobody comes to the door. She’ll probably freeze in the snow, and her family will get a call saying she froze to death in a tequila stained shirt right outside the apartment. Wouldn’t that be terrible, she muses. 

She buzzes at the glass doors and thankfully someone lets her in, because snow stars to fall in wet clumps as she trudges into the main lobby. There’s an out of order sign on the elevator, _of course there is_ so she climbs eight flights of stairs instead, each one making her legs burn, and her breathing short. 

She knocks on the door, twice because three times seems too desperate; Peter defied Jesus three times, there are three oranges in her fridge, she’s been to the physiotherapist three times this week. She hates the number three. He answers, blinking as he rubs his left eye with his fist. 

 

“Tess?” A voice asks, cloaked in sleep, _Scott_ ; she lets out a breath, she’s allowed to breathe here.

 

For a second she’s confused as to why he has to ask if it’s her, but then she remembers she didn’t even call ahead, she just told _whatever his name was_ the address to his apartment like it was her own. 

What if he had a girl over? She thinks she would have died of embarrassment, he still might, and she could be walking in on them. It’s not hard to imagine some girl with curly dark hair wearing his t shirt, and lying between his sheets. The thought makes her feel sick to her stomach so she wipes it away like the bright red lipstick she smeared on in the bathroom. 

 

“What are you doing here.” He asks her, his eyes half shut, swaying on the spot. 

“I was at a party, and I didn’t want to go back home, so I came here instead.” She says, and she feels so small in that moment, like the three inches between them has turned into three feet and he’s towering over her. 

“You should’ve called.” He says 

“I know.” She whispers and she feels so very lost in that hallway with its peeling wallpaper, that she almost turns around and walks all the way back to her apartment. 

“So...do you want a hot chocolate....or something to eat? It’s not that late.” He says, bracing a hand against the door and she suddenly remembers why she decided to come here. 

“A hot chocolate would be nice.” She smiles, following him into his apartment and all the sudden everything is cloaked in light again. She kicks off her shoes hearing a dull thud as they hit the baseboard, and smiles as she sees his scattered on the floor in a similar fashion.

She thinks there may have been conspiring between the planets when they were born, after all, Jupiter had always winked at her like it knew a secret she didn’t. 

 

Sitting down on his worn couch there’s nowhere she would rather be, even if there are crumbs in between the cushions, and his socks are rolled into a ball in the corner. He rattles around in cabinets, jostling glass jars and boxes of cereal, until she feels the couch sink beside her and he appears at her side with two steaming mugs. 

She takes it immediately, relishing in the small second his fingers bump against hers; she craves contact that doesn’t make her want to scrub her skin with steel wool. Blowing against the surface of the milk she takes a sip cautiously, even though he’s known her for forever, and he knows she doesn’t like it too hot. His is always scorching though, he’s always been heat. Warm hands, flushed cheeks, dark amber eyes, crackling like a wood fire at her side, burning quick and short like ribbons of birch. 

The gentle warmth of the drink fills her, seeping into the cracks in her porcelain heart and somehow making her feel full again, the same way that _he_ makes her feel full again. 

 

She relaxes against the back of the couch and closes her eyes, clutching the mug close to her chest, _it’s almost like home_ she decides. If she imagines hard enough she can pretend she’s in her living room, and everything’s okay, and that the rug between her toes is the one she picked out with her mother on a rainy day. 

 

“So, how was the party?” He asks, voice gravelly and low, and it all spills out of her.

How alcohol hits the back of her throat like liquid fire and the fact that she hates when he touches her like that, marks her with the ash stained on his fingers, and some other girls lipstick in his back pocket. How she hates parties, doesn’t know why she bothers going and how  
she wishes she was nine years old again and she could play with dolls, and hang onto her mother’s arm when things got scary. 

They get to talking, really talking and she realizes how much she _misses_ him. She wants it all back, she knows she does, making fake medals out of yogurt lids, and swimming with him in the lake at her cottage. Splitting ice cream at the pier, and driving to Waterloo with pillows bunched between them. She wants to laugh the way they used to, falling over and splitting at the seams until her ribs hurt and she felt happy, _really_ happy. 

She tells him all this between sips of hot chocolate and he tells her they can, so they do. 

 

He doesn’t have yogurt in his fridge so they eat pre-made ice cream cones from a box in his freezer and use the little cardboard circles from the top that say “Drumstick” on them.

They flip them over and write “#1” on the backside in sharpie even though the plastic coating on the inside makes the marker rub off onto her fingers and the numbers are all smudges. They poke holes at the top with scissors and string twine through, before tying them and draping them across their necks. 

They stand on his couch like it’s a podium and he holds her by the elbow like he’s making sure she doesn’t fall apart. 

“These are much better than world’s medals.” he tells her, and she won’t think it’s so funny when they lose that year, but in that moment it’s hilarious and she can’t get her next sentence out because she can’t stop laughing. 

 

He doesn’t have a swimming pool, much less a lake in his backyard so instead they push all his furniture to the side and dance on top of a frayed blue blanket she remembers buying him. They don’t do any of the right steps, or keep their shoulders spread, or make sure their necks stay long but it doesn’t matter because she feels free, and wild, like she could create storms.

He dips her, and spins her until she’s dizzy, and she can’t quite remember why she was so upset before. It’s like he can fix everything with his cheek against hers and his thumb rubbing the spot just behind her ear. He feels so much different than the boy with red rimmed eyes, who drove too fast did, he feels like silk, and cotton, and cashmere, and wool all at once. 

 

They eat another packaged ice cream, because all the ice cream shops downtown are closed, except this time he props it up in a bowl before cracking the cone with a spoon and mixing it until it’s just ice cream in a bowl, with pieces of cone, and fudge. 

“Almost as good as the pier.” He says, placing two spoons into the newly made invention and it tastes so much better than the candy flavoured alcohol she drank earlier. He makes faces at her the whole time, scrunching his nose and furrowing his brows as she brings each spoonful to her lips, and he reminds her so much of what he was when he was younger, that she feels like she’s be taken back in time. Her fingers are sticky with chocolate and sugar and so are his, so he washes their hands together under the tap, taking care to avoid the scratches from their shark teeth blades.

 

They don’t have enough gas to make it to Waterloo but he drives her around In his car anyways, past buildings, and parks, and stores with glowing signs. He drives at the right speed, and the streetlights don’t make her so dizzy. She props up the pillow she brought against the window, leaning into it as she watches his hands on the wheel, relaxed and calm against the smooth leather, he’s always been a much better driver than her, merging between lanes like birds in fight. 

She watches his face in the light from the dashboard, memorizes all the contours of his cheeks, and the curve of his lips. The red and blue of the buttons on the radio, makes him look like contemporary art, colour splashed across his temples and cheekbones. 

She doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until they’re back in the parking lot and he wakes her by lightly shaking her shoulder. She doesn’t want to wake up, doesn’t want this dream to end so he carries her, past the glass doors and up eight flights of stairs before he deposits her on his bed and tosses her one of his old shirts, before grabbing a pillow, and heading for the couch. 

 

“You can stay.” She says, mind cloudy as she pulls the fresh shirt over her tequila stained one and maneuvers the straps off of her shoulders underneath. She wiggles out of the tight tank and throws it onto a chair. She likes his shirt much better, it doesn’t compress her heart, and press into her lungs. “I don’t mind it, we used to do it all the time when we were kids.” 

She watches as his eyes soften before he climbs into bed beside her, pulling the covers up and over both of them. She’s not sure if it’s the time, or the fact that his pillows smell like _him_ but she curls closer to his side, fitting herself into the dip in his shoulder. 

He stiffens for a second before relaxing and wrapping his arm around her. He brushes some of her curly hair off of her shoulder before ghosting his fingers lightly across her closed eyelids. She learns that suddenly she doesn’t mind the idea of him having a dark haired girl in his bed.

 

They talk, and giggle, and poke fun at each other until they fall asleep, leaving ice cream lid medals, and blue blankets, and car keys for tomorrow.

There’s only one thought she remembers having that night before she let herself fall into sleep, and it was that he’s all she needs. She doesn’t need the girls at school who talk behind her back, or boys who spill their drinks on her and drive too fast. 

 

She’s not sure if it will be enough tomorrow or ten years from now, but it’s enough for this moment. She just needs him, solid and present, and making her laugh in the way only he can, and for the first time that night she doesn’t feel so scared anymore. 

 

It’s enough for right now.

 

She’s not afraid to grow old if it’s by his side.


End file.
